


Pull The Trigger

by NocturnexSins



Category: Professional Wrestling
Genre: M/M, TW: Suicide, tw: gore, tw: murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 17:46:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5014090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NocturnexSins/pseuds/NocturnexSins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What do you do when you can’t tell, if you awake, and still dreaming?<br/>Or dreaming, and yet, you know you're supposed to be awake?<br/>Is this is a nightmare?<br/>Is it reality?<br/>Does it really matter, when both are the same thing?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pull The Trigger

    The first thing Dean noticed was the sound of dripping water. An erratic sound, which grated on the nerves. Next, was the cold chill, which had soaked into his bones, ensuring that everything ached. Groaning softly, more of a wheeze eyes opened, then blinked, then opened again.  
    No light.  
    Trying, to bring his hand up, to wave it in front of his face, see if he could gauge any light whatsoever, the act nearly tore his arm out of its socket, as it was attached, to …dead weight? Well, maybe not dead, but something, that’s for sure. Just what the hell was going on? Was this a dream, a fucked up nightmare, or was he truly awake? It was so hard to think, to know anything for that matter.  
    Feeling his way around, with the other hand, as it was unattached to anything at all, grumbling under his breath swearing he would never ever drink again. Wait… had he gone drinking the night before? Everything was fuzzy, unable to remember anything that happened the night before …or the week before, for that matter. The headache, which was making Dean’s head throb, at the same pace as his heartbeat which was, needless to say, nearly jumping out of his chest.  
    Recoiling, his hand coming in contact with something cold, clammy. He scrambled back, as far as he could go, a keening sound beginning, silenced as teeth clamped down on his tongue, hard enough to make it bleed.  
    Oh God, _Oh God,_ **Oh God**.  
    Repeated a mantra in his head, remembering only just that his lighter, a cheap thing, he’d swiped off a table at one of the Arena’s was still in his pocket. Every breath a gasp, head turning a stream of blood spit to clear his mouth, hitting somewhere unknown, its splatter, impossibly loud in the dark.  
    Light. Now. _Now._ **NOW!**  
    Fumbling in his pocket, distantly he wondered, why he couldn’t breath out of his nose. It was clogged. Clogged in a way that reminded Dean of that one time he’d broken it, so badly it nearly needed surgery to fix. Thankfully it didn’t but he couldn’t smell anything for weeks.  
    Just… like… right... now.  
    The rasp of the lighter made Dean jump even as the spark arose, nearly blinding him, followed by light. A faint glow, more blue then orange, steadily grew into a weak circle. Showing it was only a few minutes of fluid at most, from being useless. But it was more then enough, to see what lie at his feet, attached at the other end of the handcuff he wore on his right wrist.  
    The hair, so tangled, so dirty. Roman would never let it get to that point. Like a true Thoroughbred he took care of his hair himself, and better than most women. Focusing on that, then the rest of that gorgeous face, he could easily stare at for hours.  
    No, he couldn’t stare at that face, eyes open, unfocused. Unnaturally grey, mouth open in a grimace of agony. The body, twisted in unnatural angles. Don’t stare at the bullet-hole, dark and ragged surrounded by congealed blood, on his forehead.  
    Don’t look. _Don’t look._ **DON’T LOOK!**  
    But it was too late. It had only taken a few seconds, to see all that and so much more.  
    The two shades of hair, just on the other side, curled up against Rome’s side, seeking out comfort, shelter ... _help_.  
    Dark brown eyes open, unfocused, glassy, like a doll.  
    The same expression, yet there was fear added to it, as well as a matching, ragged dark hole in his once perfect forehead.  
    Caring little if Dean pulled his arm out of socket, he tried, everything he could to get back, away, the lighter falling at his feet, but remained on, the heat having melted the lever. It guttered, nearly going out, then remained to show the gun, in his right hand. Violently shuddering, fingers tried to open, but it was no use. Somehow his hand either wouldn’t do as he wished or it was glued in place. It didn’t matter.  
    Dean knew, what he had done. Destroyed his entire world, the only two people he ever loved, ever would love. It didn’t matter now. None of it did. Openly sobbing, misery his only company he stared at the two, babbling apologies, giving no excuses, nothing but two words, repeated over and over again, until the metal on stone of the gun, startled him, finding himself alone, in the dark once again.  
    I'm sorry. _I'm sorry._ **I'm sorry!**  
    Unable to stand, walk, hours passed, then days. Nothing, except the pain, misery and knowledge of what Dean had done occupied his mind. Not escape. Not freedom. Why had he done this? He couldn’t answer that question. Truth be told, Dean was afraid of what the answer would be.  
    Fading in and out of consciousness, but not by choice, time had no meaning anymore. Thirst, hunger either. He couldn’t have eaten even if he wanted too. The stench, of their bodies, putrefying in the dark, unable to see didn’t matter either. Afraid to touch, to even be rejected then, pushed away by their pure souls at Dean's attempts to sully their corpses with his murdering hands.  
    All that mattered was that he needed enough strength for one final act. While he didn’t really believe in God, or Hell, he surely hoped, he would be going to the latter. No matter what Rome said, how many times they argued of how good Dean was, Seth at his side doing their best to change his mind, the proof before him, showed he was never going to be anything but a fucked up Lunatic, always on the Fringe of society.  
    Unwanted, an outsider, unloved. Nothing but chaos, a destroyer of everything good. Did Dean deserve anything now, more than death? No. Not anymore. What was left to live for?  
    Nothing.  
    Taking a deep breath a final, murmured apology, praying that Rome and Seth would forgive him, even if he didn’t deserve it. The muzzle was set against his temple, with one single thought on Dean’s mind.  
    Pull. _The_. **Trigger**.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
    **BANG.**


End file.
